


till the siren come calling

by burgundians



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Illnesses, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Child Abuse, Religious Content, Verbal Humiliation, kept boy Credence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burgundians/pseuds/burgundians
Summary: It’s a happy coincidence, Credence tells himself, that he can care so much for the man that pays his rent.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Born from [this convo](https://jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com/post/162826038589/gaskells-replied-to-your-post-i-hadnt-finished) with the amazing [intravenusann](http://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann)
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr graphic](http://braganzas.tumblr.com/post/163230476571/till-the-siren-come-calling-its-a-happy)

> _Misery and pride. ‘On horseback, death and a peacock’._  - Milan Kundera, Ignorance

 

The knock comes at six o’clock, too early, far too early, and even Modesty raises her head from her homework, the loud scratch of her pencil against the page interrupted. She’s been sullen lately, silent and suspicious, waiting for the other shoe to drop, hiding behind a wall of homework. Pages of exercises to get her up to date with the rest of the class, by the time school starts again in the Fall

Modesty’s teacher had been very understanding when he’d taken her to the school, lying through his teeth, saying his sister had recently come into his care after the death of their mother. 

He stops before the door, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders.

Mr. Graves is on the other side, strange in the mundane darkness of the hallway, in his splendid great coat as always. He likes the sight of him so much.

“Mr. Graves, you’re early,” he smiles at him as he steps inside. Credence’s hands flutter minutely as they reach forward before landing on Mr. Graves shoulders. He shrugs as he lets Credence tug the coat off his shoulders and sends him a small smile.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, what he’s supposed to do. Mary Lou had never taught them to be warm.

All he is is brittle but he’s trying his best.

“I got off work early,” he leans against the wall as Credence turns around to put the coat away. He has a closet now, he thinks as the cloth slides through his fingers. A closet in the top floor apartment of a pretty brownstone rowhouse.

Mr. Graves is still in the same position when he turns around, looking at him with soft eyes. He likes those eyes on him, always has. Looking people in the eyes, those that bothered to look at him, had been for years all he had. A handful of sand to throw in their faces. He has to take what he can get. 

He reaches forward quietly until there’s only a sliver of space between them, enough for Mr. Graves to stop him. Credence’s still healing hands slide through the lapels of his suit. They’re hidden from Modesty in the hallway and he doesn’t dare to speak up. 

He hasn’t been kissed in a week, since Mr. Graves had walked him up the stairs, a hand on the small of his back. You don’t have to live like this, he had said the week before that. 

Modesty had just gotten her first real beating from Mary Lou, and he realized he wasn’t going to get a chance like this again.

It’s Mr. Graves that closes the space between them and Credence wants to breathe him in.

A week is an awful long time to go without a kiss from Mr. Graves, he has such a wonderful mouth.

He steals one more kiss before drawing away.

“Hello, Modesty,” Mr. Graves greets as he steps inside the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket and sitting down at the table.

He thinks Mr. Graves must be lonely. Why else would he do all this, provide them with an apartment and an allowance and for what? There’s only one thing Credence has to give and he has no doubt others also would, and for a much cheaper rate at that.

In his heart of hearts, he knows he doesn’t mind. He can be a warm body, he can make him dinner and greet him with kisses when he comes to call. He can live like this.

He’s spent years trying to be good and all it got him was grief. He’ll try his chances with the Devil.

~

The first time, he’s so nervous he almost vomits. Sits on the bathroom floor, the tiles cold, for what feels like hours, his stomach twisting into knots.

But then again, he has a bathroom now, and he likes Mr. Graves so very much.

“We don’t have to do this, Credence,” Mr. Graves, not yet Percival, had said when he’d stepped outside.

“I want to.”

~

“I’m not stupid.” Modesty’s voice cut through the silence of his bedroom and he raises himself on his elbows.

“What?” He mumbles, turning on the lamp. A warm yellow light floods the room and Modesty, standing at the door in her nightgown, fists clenched.

“I know what this is,” she continues, eyes shiny and Credence is halfway out of bed. “I know what you’re doing, what Mr. Graves comes here for.” Her voice is wavering even as she looks so tightly strung, like the slightest twitch will snap her.

He sits up, eyes focused on the contrast of his feet on the carpet. An eternity of silence. Slowly, hesitatingly, a much smaller pair of feet enters his field of vision.

Modesty is biting her lip when he raises his head.

“Come here.” He says before Modesty throws herself into his arms. He suddenly realizes she would never have done this a few months before, would never have dared to, and that steels him. 

“I want you to know there’s nothing wrong with this, neither me nor Mr. Graves are doing anything wrong. We’re grown-ups and we’re not hurting anybody,” he says into her blonde hair. “Alright?” He’s told himself those same words again and again, wanted to believe them. 

He thinks he does, at last. 

“But it’s wrong.”

“A lot of things are wrong,” he continues. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

A nod against his throat.

“Wanna stay here tonight?”

A sniffle.

Another nod.

“Come on,” he whispers and inches back into bed, holding the sheet up. Modesty crawls in after him and burrows herself in his chest. His hands tremble as they run through her hair. 

He knows Chastity did this with her when Mary Lou brought Modesty home, screaming and crying and missing her real family with a fury neither of them could understand. He feels a pang in his chest at the thought of Chastity.

They weren’t like Modesty. They didn’t know where they came from, huddling together at night, before Chastity had bled for the first time and Mary Lou had ripped them apart, pitting them against each other.

He waits until Modesty’s breathing evens out in sleep, before dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

He knows he’s not Modesty’s brother, not a real one, at least. But she’s still his sister and his arms tighten around her.

~

The first time he saw him, he thought Mr. Graves was some kind of gangster, one of the higher ups, someone like Arnold Rothstein.

The nice clothes, the way he walked, even the way he talked, like he was in on some inside joke the whole time. He looked like something dangerous and Credence was always more drawn to dark things than was right.

But he’s not, he thinks as his nails dig into Percival’s back, his neck, his jaw, his shoulder covered in kisses and gasps, he’s not dangerous, not to him.

~

Somedays, he’s in so much pain he can hardly move. He drags himself out of bed in morning, makes breakfast for Modesty, and once he’s sent her off to school he just crawls back under the sheets again.

Every movement is a sharp twinge of pain up his spine. It’s always there like a background noise, as familiar as breathing, his body revolting against itself under his skin. 

A few hours later, he’ll get out of bed, run a hot bath on an already hot day, and let the mist surround him.

He sits in the water, his hands running reverently over the smooth white ceramic. The air around him is thick with humidity and he feels himself unravelling, his body sluggish and soft. 

Idleness, Mary Lou’s voice accuses from the depths of his mind.

Oh hush, he thinks, sinking down under the water, lying there until the pressure on his lungs is too much.

The water breaks when he comes back up again, gasping, running his hands across his face. He needs to shave.

He’ll do that later, he thinks as he pulls himself out of the warm bathwater and back into his room, clumsily putting on his pajamas and burying himself under his sheets.

He feels so heavy, like an anvil is pulling him down, but more solid than before. Darkness takes him and he wakes some hours later when he feels the bed dip.

“Credence,” Modesty whispers, gently nudging him. 

“What time is it?” His mouth feels dry but he’s far sharper than he was in the morning. People have called him simple his entire life, but he’s not, it just hurts to exist sometimes.

“It’s 6 o’clock.”

“Oh no, I have to make dinner,” he groans into his pillow.

“Mr. Graves was just here, I told him you were sick and he went out to get food,” she jumps on the bed. “I don’t think he knows how to cook.”

“Probably not,” he stretches, feeling sharper than he did that morning.

“He brought me something.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a book. The Girl, a Horse and a Dog,” she burrows into his chest.

“That was nice of him.”

“I guess,” she shrugs.

“Want me to read it to you?” Credence asks, running his fingers through her hair.

“I can read!” Modesty responds indignant.

“Of course, sorry,” he says seriously, biting his lip.

He lays a kiss on the top of her head and he feels Modesty’s arms squeeze him harder around the middle.

He’s half dozing again when he hears the front door open and tentative footsteps across the floor. There’s rustling of paper in the kitchen and clanging of dishware.

Percival appears at the doorway a few minutes later, holding a tray.

“Hello.” He greets, fingers still continuing their downwards path through Modesty’s hair.

“Modesty just told me you were sick, so I decided to play it safe. There’s soup, bread, water.” Percival lays the tray gently down on the bedside table.

“And a flower.” Credence adds, smiling at the little white gerbera in a glass.

Percival looks embarrassed and Credence can’t help being confused; he’s brought him flowers before, far more impressive ones.

“Do you want me to call you a doctor?” He asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No, I’ll be alright by tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says, looking down at his sister. “Modesty, could you give us a few minutes? And bring the book, I’d like to see it.”

Modesty jumps out of bed and runs into the living room. Percival stands and lays the tray carefully on his lap, before sitting down at the edge of the bed.

“Thank you,” his hands flutter over the sheets, arranging them mechanically. “Sorry, I don’t think I can… tonight, that is.”

“Of course not,” he looks almost upset at the idea. Credence opens his mouth to say something, but in that moment Modesty runs back into the room, hands gripping a red book, and jumping into bed at his side.

He grabs the spoon, swirling it in the soup for a few seconds as Modesty thumbs through the pages.

“Want to read it to me?” He asks and Modestly nods.

“Cousin Percy’s little joke,” Modesty reads aloud and Credence can’t help the raised eyebrow.

“My nephews thought it was funny,” Percival explains blandly. 

“You have nephews?”

“Twin boys. They’re in school now, my old school, in Massachusetts,” he frowns. “They liked it but they’re a bit older that Modesty.” 

Percival gamely ignores the deathly glare from Modesty and Credence shoves a spoonful of soup in his mouth.

“ _Anyways_ ,” she adjusts her book, “I suppose everyone has had the experience of waking in the middle of the night to find everything perfectly still and quiet and normal and yet with the impression persisting that there had been a…” 

“Tremendous,” Credence supplies, looking over her shoulder.

“A tremendous crash of some just before the waking senses were alive enough to realize it.”

Credence eventually sends her off to bed when her words start slurring together and Percival takes that moment to step out to the kitchen and put his dinner away. Credence lets himself sink down on the pillows, feeling heavy and peaceful and terrifyingly happy.

“I should go,” Credence turns his head to the door, where Percival is leaning against the frame.

“You don’t have to,” he says. He wants Percival to stay. “It’s late, and it’s a long way back to Manhattan.”

An odd, bitter laugh escapes Percival then and he looks almost angrily at the wall behind him. He nods sharply and Credence pats the empty space next to him on the bed.

He takes his clothes off with such care when he’s not feeling lustful. Credence feels oddly bashful, like this is something he shouldn’t be looking at. There’s something tender in the way he pars himself down, takes off his waistcoat, his tie, undoes his cufflinks, reaches down for his shoes.

It’s when he begins unbuttoning his shirt that the air shifts and he knows Percival can feel it too.

The shirt, such fine shirts he always wears, is carefully placed on the chair in his bedroom, followed by the metallic sound of a buckle belt, the rustle of his pants.

“It’s hot tonight,” Credence says when he watches him hesitate. He nods and Credence turns his head to the ceiling. He’s seen him bare before, several times. Not like this, he thinks. Out of the corner of his eye, Percival steps out of his union suit. Not yet like this. A click and the room is covered in darkness.

The bed dips and Credence turns on his side as Percival tugs the sheet over himself.

“Goodnight,” he says.

Percival reaches forward and kisses his forehead tenderly. Credence can almost feel every single inch of those warm lips on his skin.

He’s sweating under his sleep clothes when he wakes up, the early September morning invading his room, the air stuffy and heavy. He gravitated closer to Percival during the night, a strong arm over his shoulders, legs and sheets tangled together.

Percival sleeps like he wants to hold the world. Chest down, limbs spread, hands palming the sheets.

The sheet has slid down to Percival’s waist and he lets his hand hover over the skin of his back, less than an inch of separation. He can feel the fine hairs under his fingers.

He has scars too, not as many as Credence but still, scattered all over his body, like birds in flight. He remembers him mentioning he was in the Great War. Veterans are chatty when they’re drunk and he’s stumbled on more than a few. He doesn’t want to know those things, not from Percival.

He just wants to kiss him. He always wants to kiss him.

He leans down and presses his mouth against the broad expanse of skin. He tastes salt under his lips.

It’s a happy coincidence, he tells himself, that he can care so much for the man that pays his rent.

It doesn’t feel like a chore to lie with him, and when the early morning sun floods the bedroom with light, he can even pretend that he is not doing this for money and comfort, that they are just two lovers taking pleasure in one another.

Mary Magdalene and Rahab repented but he can’t find it in his heart to regret this, not when he’s trailing kisses across that broad back. His own body is a holy thing too, it deserves better than lashes. 

Go to, I pray thee, let me come in unto thee, he says into the skin, What wilt thou give me, that thou mayest come in unto me?   

Beneath him, Percival stirs. Credence stretches himself to lie face to face, to watch as his brown eyes struggle to open and break the spell.

“Good morning,” Percival mumbles, smiling blearily at him. He looks so gentle then, is always so gentle with him and Modesty. He leans forward to press a kiss to his nose. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you.”

Percival nods, before squinting at him .

“What was that you were saying?”

“Oh, hmm, Genesis.” He hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud. Percival hums thoughtfully. 

“I don’t know the Bible that well, I’m afraid. My education was more along the Classics,” he continues, letting his hand reach out for Credence’s waist where the shirt of his pajamas had ridden up, stroking at the skin.

“Like what?” He can’t help the question, he’s so curious about this man, hungry for every glimpse inside the windows of his soul. He wants to understand so many things.

“Greek, so much Greek,” he groans like a disgruntled schoolboy and Credence has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “I did like Euripides, though,” he concedes.

The hand on his waist, the thumb going back and forth, back and forth, is driving him to distraction. 

“I liked the Song of Solomon,” he offers in the still morning.

“There’s a song?” He sounds surprised, one thick eyebrow raised.

“As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons,” the tips of his fingers trace over Percival’s lips. ”I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.” 

Credence’s fingers rest on his jaw when Percival reaches forward to kiss him.

“That’s pretty,” he whispers against his lips.

“It is.”

He wants to lie to himself.

Credence follows Percival’s lips when he draws away. He throws a leg over his waist, maneuvers him until Percival’s lying on his back. Grabs at his wrist, tugging it above Percival’s head, pressing it down on the soft pillow.

He had splurged on the bed linen. Thought it was the least he could do, since Percival was going to pay to be in his bed. He wasn’t going to be had on scratchy sheets, it was a matter of pride.

He wasn’t prepared for the rest of it.

Percival liked to take off his coat, roll up his sleeves, to sit and talk, to eat dinner with him and Modesty. He’ll tell him about the places he’s been to, Boston and Washington as a child, all over the country for work, in Europe for the War. He doesn’t know New York like Credence does, but then again, few people do.

His fingers silde into Percival’s and he laces them together, traps him, kneels over him, would have him stay there forever if he could.

Percival doesn’t say anything, just looks up at him. His free hand traces the pale lines on his hip under his clothes, a reminder from when he was fifteen and shot up like a weed, skin stretching and breaking.

He’s lonely, Credence had realized months ago, handsome, and rich and well-heeled, and he doesn’t have anyone he really wants to lie down with.

That’s sad, he thinks, leaning down to kiss him, that’s so very sad.


	2. Chapter Two

 

> “Like a snake, my heart  
>  has shed its skin.  
>  I hold it here in my hand,  
>  full of honey and wounds.  
>  ― Federico García Lorca

 

Credence takes to walking. He feels like he spent his entire life walking, like he could drive a hole in the ground of Manhattan with his footsteps.

He starts by taking longer and longer detours when buying groceries. Around the block, out of Bedford, until the place got grimmer and grimmer and the stench becomes hard to bear.

One day, he goes the other way around. By leafy residential streets and down the broad Franklin Avenue. The colonnades of the neo-classical façade of the Brooklyn Museum are more than a little tempting before he decides to turn the corner and wander down the Botanic Garden. He passed by the Metropolitan Museum more times than he can count and he never dared to go inside.

Mary Lou had held a steady admiration for technological advancements, proof of industry and ingenuity. The arts had not received the same acknowledgement. They held no practical use and were nothing more than a source of vanity. Catholics were especially at fault, filling their churches with paintings and statues. Nothing but idolatry.

But they’re beautiful, he had thought. Surely making beautiful things is worthy. God must have thought so, why else would he have made flowers?

The gentle breeze rustling the cherry trees cools the sweat on the nape of his neck and the gravel crunches under the soles of his new shoes.

He’s already broken so many old rules. One more will hardly tip the scales.

 

~

He’s sharp enough to realize something’s wrong when he sees Percival at the door. 

He’s tense the whole evening, eyes shuttered, like an incoming storm. Even Modesty, usual recipient of tentative pats on the head, notices and flees into her room when dinner is finished.

The tension is still there when they move to the couch, so languidly on other days, a heavy blanket of discomfort today. He feels wooden and his hands clutch at each other when he sinks down on the seat.

Is Percival tired of them already?

Percival takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.

He’s been putting most of the money aside; Percival is a generous lover, after all and gives him more than enough. It’s very tastefully done, in fact. No money changes hands, but there’s a small wooden box in the living room where he always finds a roll of dollar bills after a visit.

But he expected to have a little more time. He doesn’t have nearly enough to pay rent and live off of for more than a month.

And Modesty will be so upset.

“I’m sorry, I’m no fit company tonight.” Percival’s voice shakes him out of his calculations, and he looks at him to see a soft smile being directed at him.

“Is something wrong?” He will not tremble. Not now.

He doesn’t know why he does it, to keep him perhaps, but he leans down behind Percival on the couch and lets his hands slide down the front of his chest. Percival starts for a moment, before grabbing his hands and raising them to his mouth, covering his scarred palms with kisses.

He’s so very fond of this man.

“It’s work,” he eventually says, shaking his head. “I’d rather not think about it right now.”

“Alright,” He bites his lip and lays his chin on the top of Percival’s head, hands still held in his grasp. “I went to the museum today,” he volunteers in the silent room. “I’d never been to a museum before.”

“Did you like it?”

“I liked the impressionists, I think that’s what they were called.” He liked the absence of lines and borders, the soft blues and grey clouds, the countryside in paint so thick he could almost see it jumping out of the painting. He didn’t like the portraits, stately and formal, with eyes that silently told him it was not his place. He takes longer in that gallery out of spite.

“That’s right. You know why they painted?” Percival asks, light and airy.

“Why?” He asks cautiously.

“For the Monet.” Credence can’t help the snigger and he lets his head drop just enough for Percival to turn to look at him, looking so very pleased with himself. Credence kisses the lovely spot behind his ear.

“I liked the landscapes. I’ve never been to the country,” It’s hardly a shocking confession, but Percival lets his head fall back.

“Would you like to?” His back is hurting from holding the half bent position too long. 

“I guess,” he straightens himself and goes to walk away but one of his hands is still held in Percival’s stubborn grip.

A thumb strokes his hand softly, and really, this would be much simpler if Percival wasn’t like this. 

There was a streetwalker in Pike Street when he was younger. Poor and painfully plain until she smiled and she always smiled at Credence. For all he never felt desire for a woman, he had adored the sight of her and her stripped stockings, fondness making her only two dresses, thin by use, new again, her brown hair thick, her shoes unscuffed.

He’d spoken to her only once, when she scattered a group of boys like a flock of birds. He was on the ground, looking worse for wear, tears of anger and pain and wounded pride mingling with the dirt on his face, Ma’s pamphlets long forgotten, fallen on a pile of horse dung. She had plopped down on the sidewalk step next to him and he still doesn’t understand how he dared to lean into her space the way he did.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, they push me around too,” She had said, letting him rest his head on her shoulder, a ringlet of her Mary Pickford curls tickling his nose. It smelled awfully nice. There was a tear in the lace ribbon of her dress, he noticed, but her bruised arms were around him and he could think of nowhere else he’d rather be. 

“Want a sugar cube?” She had asked, digging in her little kiss lock purse.

She was just gone one day, and he had prayed for her with all the devotion of his twelve years.

Credence feels Percival get up behind him, thumb still running across his skin.

He thinks of her and her sugar cube more now than he has in years. Desperately wishes a life for her, a good life, maybe she went west one day, left Pike Street behind, met someone sweet who liked the smell of her brown hair.

Credence almost asks him if he likes his black hair when he feels hands on his shoulders and lips pressed to the nape of his neck.

“Mind putting me up tonight?” Percival rumbles into his ear. Arms surround his waist and Credence likes that more than he can say.

“I don’t know, I am very busy,” he replies trying not to laugh, both of relief and at the feeling of Percival nosing into the skin of his neck.

“Oh, I’ll be very quiet,” Percival says, voice muffled.

“Really,” Credence manages to gasp.

“Like a mouse.”

 

~

On Sunday, the summer was bidding its gentle goodbye, a warm breeze entering through the open windows and rustling the gauzy curtains. 

Modesty hops over to him, the points of the ironed sheet in her hands, her arms a wide arch. She’s been excited all morning, jumping off the walls. He’d been bemused and had suggested she go outside to play only to be firmly refused.

He has her helping him with the laundry instead.

The laughter of children in the street and the sound of a car coming to a stop nearby filter inside and Modesty is positively thrumming with energy as he grabs hold of her half of the sheet, folding it and placing on the basket.

“Alright, what’s going on?” He asks sternly.

Modesty opens her mouth before shooting down the hallway at the knock on the door. She comes back a second later, tugging Percival by the hand.

“What are you doing here?” The question slips out and he almost apologizes before noticing the sly look Modesty sends Percival.

“Well, I decided to take a day off work and I was just wondering if you’d like to join me on a little outing,” Percival says, Modesty swinging his arm the whole time. 

 

~

Percival holds the door of the shiny black Ford Sedan open as Modesty jumps in over the front seats. Credence follows at a more sedate pace. The door shuts with a soft thud and he lets his hands trail over the dark leather seats as Percival walks around the front of the car. 

“Ready?” He asks, stepping into the driver’s side and quickly shutting the door.

“Yes!” Modesty says.

“I still don’t know where we’re going,” it was hard to stay serious in the face of Modesty’s enthusiasm and Percival’s soft smiles.

“It’s a surprise.”

Credence lets it go and takes to watch the world pass by outside the car. It’s when the crowded Brooklyn neighborhoods give way to empty fields that he feels a finger press against his hand.

He lets his head lay back, looking at Percival from the corner of his eye, his dark waistcoat, jacket long thrown on the backseat, the left hand gripping the steering wheel. He has such lovely hands, strong and elegant, the shadow of dark hair peeking from beneath the white shirt.

He smells wonderfully too, like English cigarettes and expensive perfumes, smooth and warm.

His hand turns, palm up, and Percival’s right hand wanders closer, slowly, over the spaces between his fingers.

There’s seduction in riches, in comfort, and Credence is intimately aware he is not immune to its appeal. But he knows he’d want Percival even if he were a poor wretch without a dime to his name and there’s a shame to that as well.

He can’t lie to himself that greed and comfort is all that drives him to break every rule Ma carved into his skin. Tenderness is frightening too and far more tempting and Percival’s hand is so very warm.

Outside his window, the world turns green, tree leaves clinging to summer.

“You said you’d never been to the country,” Percival says and Credence raises his head. “I had a free day,” he shrugs.

 “You didn’t have too,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say but state the obvious. Percival didn’t have to do any of this but he does. And where does that leave him? “Thank you,” he continues.

Percival nods and his left hand clenches on the steering wheel.

This man loves him.

He can ruin him.

He could be cruel. Could cut the heart out of his chest and hand it to him bloody. The hungry, ugly part of him would do monstrous things, but Credence just doesn’t want to.

The car leaves the parkway and stops after less than a mile of bumpy, side road. Percival parks the car in a small clearing, Modesty glued to her window. Trees surround him when he opens the door, the air cleaner and fresher than he’d ever felt.

Modesty crawls out of the backseat, stepping over him with a huff, a wicker basket in hand.

He turns to Percival, busy adjusting his cuffs. He slides closer on the front seat until they’re pressed together and Percival turns to him, an eyebrow raised. Credence cups his face and covers it with kisses, on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his lips.

Percival huffs a laugh and kisses him back.

“Come on,” he says, opening his door. Credence follows him out and Modesty sets the pace for them, walking down the trail, basket swinging dangerously close to spilling its contents.

“What did you bring?” Credence asks, nodding at the basket.

“Some sandwiches, water, cherries,” Percival winds an arm around his waist, “wine,” he continues, nuzzling into his neck.

“Wine?” Credence asks surprised. “Don’t you work for the Government?”

“Are you going to turn me in?” Percival asks with a grin.

“I might,” he says into Percival’s lips before quickly turning his head. “Modesty, be careful with that!”

They quickly detangle themselves as Modesty turns around.

“Don’t worry about it,” Percival says as the river comes into view beyond the trees and Modesty runs forward.

“Is this the Hudson?” He can’t help asking.

“Yes, hard to believe it’s the same river, isn’t it?” The river in front of them shines like a mirror in the midday sun and green hills rise from the opposite banks.

“Credence!” Modesty has taken off her Mary Janes and stands on the edge of the water before jumping in, splashing water every which way and Credence smiles at the sight.

“If you’ll excuse me, there’s something I have to do,” Percival says, touching his arm.

“Should I come with you?” He asks.

“No need, it won’t take long,” Percival answers, walking away. Credence turns back to look at him but Modesty’s shrieks of happiness draw his attention. He’s never seen her so happy and there’s a wonderful tug at his heartstrings.

He slips out of his jacket and lays it on the ground next to the basket. He sits down and closes his eyes, listening to Modesty, to the crickets hidden in the foliage, to the running water. Dry twigs crack underneath him and he breathes in, feeling the world around him, the warmth of the sun, the clean smell of the forest.

He hears Percival approach and sitting down next to him and he leans closer unthinking.

He opens his eyes and sees Modesty bent over the water, scrounging for polished pebbles. He turns to Percival to see him looking at him.

“You’ve been upset,” he doesn’t mean it as a reproach but Percival frowns.

“I’m sorry. Things have been hectic at work,” he explains.

“Is it over now?”

“No,” he huffs. “And it won’t be over for a long time, I’m afraid,” he sighs and looks at Credence, a pleading look on his face. “Can we not talk about this? The day is too nice and you’re too lovely for me to think about unpleasant things.”

Credence frowns and Percival reaches for the basket, pulling out a plain bowl. He takes the top off and hands it to Credence.

“I’ve never had cherries before,” he confesses.

“It’s a day of firsts, then,” Percival says “You know, my mother used to put them on her ears, like a pair of earrings. To make me laugh, I suppose,” he shrugs.

“She sounds nice,” Credence says, oddly touched.

“She was. She died when I was sixteen,” Percival says, rolling a pair of cherries in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It was a long time ago,” Percival says, but there are old wounds behind his words.

Credence bites into a dark cherry. It’s sweeter than he expected and he spits the pit to the side.

On the bank, Modesty is trying to skip stones on the water with little success. Percival eyes her speculatively before getting up and walking over.

“I used to be good at this,” he says, bending down to pick a stone.  

Percival bends his knees slightly, swinging his right arm back in an arch and throwing it forward, the stone flying from his grasp with a quick, half hidden, gesture of the hand.

“Seven!” Modesty shouts in awe. “Credence, it skipped seven times!”

“I saw,” he smiles as they walk back to where he’s sitting, riffling through the basket’s contents. “You haven’t eaten since this morning,” he says, handing Modesty a napkin-covered sandwich. Percival reaches over his shoulder for the wine bottle, shaking it a little in his direction.

“Can I tempt you?” He asks, biting the cork and pulling it out of the bottleneck with his teeth.

Credence frowns. What’s one more sin, he thinks. He grabs the offered bottle and takes a quick swig. It’s not unpleasant, rich and sweet, and he feels himself warm, weather at the wine or the smile Percival shoots him, he can’t be sure.

“It’s nice,” he says.

“Nice?” Percival asks, eyebrows climbing high. “That’s a Vintage Port.”

“Can I try it?” Modesty asks, biting into her sandwich.

“No!”

“Sure.”

Credence frowns at Percival.

“Just a sip,” he shrugs. “I used to have a bit of the table wine all the time, when I was a boy.”

“Fine,” Credence says, handing Modesty the bottle. “A taste, no more. And you can’t tell anybody. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Modesty says seriously before taking a careful sip. “It’s disgusting,” she announces, grimacing.

“You two have no taste,” Percival sighs, taking back the bottle and corking it. He reaches into his pocket for his silver cigarette case. He lights it quickly and leans back, an arm behind his head.

Credence takes his shoes and socks off, and rolls the hem of his trousers up. He stands up and follows Modesty slowly down to the river. The cool water is a shock to the system and he draws a breath and closes his eyes.

He feels a hand reach out for his and he opens his eyes to see Modesty, looking at him, gripping his hand, with a serious look on her face.

He holds her hand tighter for a second, understanding what she doesn’t say. He closes his eyes again, enjoying the coldness of the water against his skin, the feel of the slight current, the pebbles under the soles of his feet.

Sometimes, he thinks he feels too much. The light is too bright, the colors too garish, the sounds too loud. He doesn’t mind it so much now. There’s a peacefulness he never experienced, a fundamental silence, a primal thing. He sometimes feels like he himself is a primal thing, something deep and hungry inside his bones gnawing at his entrails.

It won’t let him be, no matter how often Percival indulges his every desire, how he tends to him in unspeakable ways, how much milk and honey he devours in the seat of his wickedness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know people have been making the Monet joke since the 1860s?


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit darker than the rest. But, plot.

> _How on earth can I keep you? -_ Edith Wharton, _The Age of Innocence_
> 
>  

The silence of the bedroom is broken by their panting breaths. The bed creaks minutely when Percival rolls off him, but everything always sounds so loud in those moments.

He closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the sheets tangled between his legs, of light headedness, of Percival trailing kisses across his shoulder.

A pleased hum escapes him and his eyes flutter open. He turns to Percival and captures his lips in a languid kiss. Slow like a summer evening, he thinks, but October has just made an appearance. 

He sits up and quickly throws the robe over himself. 

“Won’t be a minute,” he says, leaning down to kiss Percival one more time, who laces their hands together. He is reluctantly released once he draws away. He turns his head as he leaves, and sees Percival close his eyes and lean his head back, chest wide and arms thick, dark hairs trailing over his skin. It feels like a small theft.

He tiptoes when he passes Modesty’s bedroom door and ducks quietly into the bathroom, carefully shutting the door.

Once, he had fallen asleep right afterwards and regretted it bitterly the next day. He swipes the wet cloth between his unsteady legs. The water trickles down his legs and he draws a deep breath.

Credence places the washcloth back in the white enamel bowl and slides it under the bathtub as silently as he can. He’ll deal with that in the morning.

He avoids looking into the mirror as he leaves.

Percival has opened the bedroom window by the time he returns, a cigarette between his lips. He’s half sitting on the window ledge, his face bathed in yellow by the street light outside, the ashtray he keeps for him in arm’s reach.

“What are you humming?” he asks. Percival falls silent as he walks closer. He bends down to kiss his temple and Percival’s arm twists around his waist.

“Just an old song, let’s see if I remember the words,” he says, tilting his head back. Credence raises his hand to Percival’s head, stroking over the short bristles of his hair. “I wish I was in Carrickfergus, Only for nights in Ballygrand, I would swim over the deepest ocean for my love to find.”

“I didn’t know you were Irish,” Credence says, impossibly fond.

“I’m not, my family was, a long time ago,” Percival frowns.

“Come to bed,” he says, fingers still running though Percival’s hair, still leaning his head against his stomach, basking into his attentions like a large cat.

Percival puts out the cigarette in the ashtray, waving the smoke away. He stands up and shuts the window as Credence crawls into bed, closely followed.

“Your feet are freezing,” Percival groans into his ear, pressed against his back.

“Hmmm buy me carpet,” he mumbles, eyes drifting shut.

 

~

 

The day dawned grim and rainy. Credence is preparing the coffee, half asleep himself when Percival wanders into the kitchen. He yawns into his robe sleeve before picking the coffee pot and sitting down at the table.

Percival is munching on the toast in silence, looking tense, when Modesty skips inside, already dressed for the day.

“Good morning!” She says brightly, reaching for a slice. They mumble a greeting back.

After a few moments of silence, Percival clears his throat and straightens his back.

“I’ll be going away for a while,” he says.

“Away?” Modesty shouts.

Credence is too shocked to say anything, eyes widening.

“Yes, I have to go to Europe on work. It won’t be more than a month,” he’s quick to assure.

“A month?” Credence whispers.

“Yes, at most,” Percival says. “And I’ll make sure… we’ll speak more of that later.”

He nods, and feels the blood freeze in his veins.

 

~

 

Credence has always been a light sleeper. The warmth of his bed almost tricks him into returning to sleep but he sees Percival’s back turned to him. He’s sitting, shoulders tense, turning something white and thin in his hands.

“What’s that?” he asks, heart in his throat. He doesn’t like it when Percival’s nervous.

“Nothing,” he answers quickly, stilling his hands.

“Percival.” He has never done anything so vulgar as leave payment on the nightstand, to even mention money.

Percival takes a deep breath and nods, visibly bracing himself.

“Nothing will probably happen to me while I’m in Europe. But,” the word hangs in the air before him, a sea of possibilities, each one more horrible than the last. “I want you to be… secure.”

“Secure,” Credence repeats.

“Yes,” Percival says. He runs a hand through his hair and reaches for the envelope. He hands it to him wordlessly.

The paper is heavy as he reaches for it and the words swim in front of his eyes.

“This indenture made the 14th of October in the year of our Lord…, Percival what is this?” He wishes his voice wasn’t wavering.

“I don’t like the thought that you’d be in trouble if something happened to me,” he says quietly. In trouble, Credence thinks, in trouble like being dirt poor and with nowhere to go.

“You bought me a house,” is all he can say, the paper shaking. Warm hands cover his.

“Yes. This house is yours, to do with as you will. You can keep it or sell it, whatever you want.” Percival says.

“Percival…” he whispers. 

Oh God, but he’s so full of love. 

Percival nods and releases his hands only to cup his face, making him look at him. He needn’t worry, there’s nowhere else he could look even if he wanted to.

“I care about you so much, Credence, you’re very dear to me,” he confesses.

“I didn’t think it’d be dangerous,” Credence says without thinking. 

“It’s not,” Percival lies, his thumb stroking Credence’s cheek. “Just in case.”

People don’t buy houses just in case.

Credence nods slowly. He’s afraid of what he’ll say if he opens his mouth. Surely he can keep him, throw his arms around his shoulder, lock his ankles around his waist, keep him inside forever.

He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. That is not the kind of arrangement they have. He can allow himself a kiss, he thinks pressing his lips to Percival’s.

 

~

 

For the first time in his life, Credence celebrates Thanksgiving. He spends the rest of October pouring through the newspaper clippings he has been carefully pasting into a scrapbook and haunting the library for recipe books.

He’s a bit put out that Percival won’t be there, but he does receive a lovely hand colored postcard from London, the Thames impossibly blue with a row of stately buildings beside it.

It had arrived with a letter a few days previously, in a thick envelope with no return address. In it, Percival had carefully described London, the Strand, the stench of the Thames, the pleasant calm of Hyde Park. Between them, there are a few quips about the British stiff upper lip.

“The pot calling the kettle black,” he had muttered at the letter. 

Those parts he reads to Modesty.

There are lines that belong to his eyes alone, promises of affection, worry, assurances of being well and returning shortly after a quick stop in Germany.

_I miss you terribly, darling._

His heart stutters.

And so he throws himself into cooking, under Modesty’s wide-eyed attention. Whips egg yolks in a fury, kneads dough and when his sister wanders into kitchen on the morning of the 25th of November, he’s half slumped on the table, staring unseeing into a bowl of parched corn.

He misses him terribly too. Misses his hands, his smell, the way he frowns when he wakes up.

He misses his mouth and his kisses, how generous he is with his attentions when he’s in Credence’s bed. It’s no proper time of day for such thoughts, he reminds himself.

Modesty is a valiant helper, carefully checking on the pumpkin pie, hands sticky from digging into the corn bowl.

The potatoes are over boiled when they sit down for dinner, the turkey undercooked.

“Do you want to say grace?” he asks.

“Not really,” Modesty shrugs.

He nods and reaches for the potatoes.

“But…” Modesty bites her lips, steeling herself. “I’m really glad that we’re here.”

“I am too,” he answers.

Modesty looks at him for a moment. A smile breaks out across her face and he reaches for her plate.

Dinner is a quiet affair. He thinks it should probably be more cheerful and merry but they don’t know how to be any other way. He quietly hands Modesty the bread rolls, growing increasingly aware that they’ll spend the next two days eating turkey. This suits them just fine.

She follows him to his room with a slice of pumpkin pie in hand and falls asleep next to him. Her small hand clutches his even in sleep and he throws the covers over her as best as he can.

“Oh Heavenly Father”, he whispers. “Thank you for your blessing upon us, thank you for the food on our table, for the roof over our heads,” he stops and gulps. “Thank you for sending Percival to me, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended but I’ve never felt more at peace than I am now. Amen.”

The marks on his hands have scarred, and so have the ones on his back, and one day some of them may even fade.

There’s a purity in the way Percival touches him, regardless of the wonderful, filthy things they do. It feels dangerously close to a safe harbor.

Modesty mumbles in her sleep and leans closer. Credence tugs his hand out of hers and runs it through her hair.

“I wish I was in Carrickfergus,” he sings quietly, “Only for nights in Ballygrand, I would swim over the deepest ocean for my love to find.”

 

~

 

A month at most, he had said. A month had come and gone, he thinks as he looks at the calendar, December arriving boldly and unwelcome. Modesty picks up on his mood quickly enough and walks through the house silently.

He tries to distract himself, to help with her school work but it’s soon evident he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, that his letters and sums is all he learned to do and he’s too embarrassed to continue.

Modesty doesn’t say anything when she catches him pouring through her school books one evening, long past her bed time.

She doesn’t say anything when she sees his notebook on the kitchen table, carefully marked with all their expenses. It’s only been a week but it’s better to be prepared than to be caught unaware, in sight of an empty pantry. As it is, they have enough to live comfortably for three more months, four if he stretches the money, which he will. If Percival doesn’t come back, and what a pang in the chest that thought is, he’ll just sell the house, take the money and Modesty, maybe even Chastity, and start again somewhere else.

Go West, like the Pike Street working girl. Cleanse himself from New York.

But the thought of letting go of the house kills something inside him, that dark room inside his ribs where he keeps Percival and his kisses. He doesn’t think he could ever let go of that, of looking at another man quite the same way ever again. He wishes Percival was a nobody without a job that takes him to Europe for a month from which he may not return.

He’ll take that room of his, dark and tender, to the grave. Brick it shut, if need be.

Needs must, he thinks as he looks at the pages and his scribbles. Percival isn’t some nameless Chelsea dockyard worker, and the money will run out sooner or later.

He wishes he were, sometimes. Wishes he could live in his house, rub his aching back and wake up next to him every morning, instead of just every other day. There wouldn’t be so many comforts but then again, for the Credence in the church, every step was a step up.

But needs must, he reminds himself, and Credence collects his coat and his wallet once Modesty leaves for school.

 

~

 

He takes the subway to Manhattan. He has been avoiding it, hasn’t stepped foot there since Percival set up the apartment for him in Brooklyn. He understands why, he’s close but not too close and he doesn’t mind, to be honest. It’s more distance between himself and Mary Lou’s hunting ground. She rarely did cross the bridge.

But that day, he hands over the nickel for the trip, sits down in the train, and when he’s crossing over the river he has a crippling feeling that something terrible is going to happen.

But he has to. He has to know where he stands and what to do next.

If it breaks his heart, then so be it.

He shakes himself off and leaves City Hall Station and its tiled arches, dread following him. Mary Lou must be proselytizing in some other part of town, he thinks as he leaves the station and finds a park bench in City Hall Park within sight of the Woolworth Building. He leans back and settles down for a long wait.

It’s noon when he sees him standing outside the rotating doors. He’s standing there, still as a statue, hands by his sides. Percival’s eyes meet his and he feels like cold water as just been poured down his spine.

He sees Percival raise an eyebrow across the street and turn around and walk back inside.

Credence takes a deep breath and gets up from the park bench.

His hands are shaking when he gets on the train back to Brooklyn.

 

~

 

He makes dinner for three. Mistakes Mr. Druckman’s footstep on the stairs for Percival’s and almost runs to the door. Keeps looking out of the window every few minutes. And through it all Modesty says nothing. He is more than a little irked at her steady looks but doesn’t speak either.

Percival doesn’t arrive at six, or at seven and when Modesty stalks to her bedroom at eight o’clock, Credence lays down on the couch, too nervous to do anything else. The street lamps are turned on some time later and the living room is covered in yellow light.

Credence lies on the couch with the pressing feeling that he will unravel at any moment.

That would extremely inconvenient, especially at this time when he needs to keep his wits about.

He’s half dozing off when he hears the door open. His eyes open with a start. Something is wrong. He looks at the clock.

11 o’clock.

Percival would never show up so late, he’s oddly respectful of that. He always knocks.

And Credence could swear he didn’t hear the key.

“Percival,” he says when Percival steps into the living room, looking around. He doesn’t answer, just continues his perusal with a faint sneer, holding up one of Modesty’s books. The red covered one, the one Percival had given her, he realizes with a start when it’s carelessly thrown back on the table.

He jumps at the sound.

A chill floods him.

He’s strung so tightly he could snap. He hasn’t felt like this in months, has never even thought Percival would one day make him feel like this.

He needs to leave, to get out, to get Modesty and go but he can’t move, he’s frozen in terror. This can’t be how he ends, he refuses.

His stomach is twisting in knots when Percival turns that sneer on him. He leans calmly against the door frame and Credence feels so rotten inside he just wishes he could claw his eyes out.

“You see, I have never understood the appeal,” he says and it sounds so wrong.

“Of what?” he chokes out.

“Consorting with such an obvious inferior, of course,” Percival says with a patronizing smile. “You must be very good at what you do.”

His blood freezes in his veins. Percival had never spoken to him like this, had never made such a crass, underhand comment.

When he looks at him, Percival is looking back like he’s a mildly interesting insect. Something terrible is going on, he can feel it in every bone in his body.

“What happened to you?” he asks without thinking and he clamps his mouth shut immediately but it’s too late. Percival starts walking towards him, slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Credence feels his back hitting the wall.

I miss you terribly, darling, he had written. Those were his words, lovely and darling and sweetheart, his words for Credence, and he doesn’t know what horrible, horrible thing is in front of him but it’s not the same Percival Graves.

He has to get out.

He feels like his entrails are being ripped apart. Everything hurts but it’s a familiar pain, one he hasn’t felt since the Church.

“You could say my eyes have opened,” Percival reaches out a hand for him. A finger tucks a lock of hair away from his eyes. His skin crawls. “It’s nothing personal, you see, loose ends have to be taken care of.”

Something is clawing at his lungs.

He has to get out. He has to get Modesty and run.

“Some men have curious tastes but I wouldn’t have thought it of him,” He’s still touching him, running the tip of his finger through the angles of his face. Lightly enough that he almost doesn’t feel it. He releases his face and wipes his hand on his coat.

His feet are like lead.

His liver is being gnawed on. His spine is on fire.

“Of who?” Credence’s voice rises in frustration and confusion and pain, it’s as if his brain is roasting inside his skull. 

His heart is breaking.

“Percival Graves,” he says like it’s obvious.

And in front of his eyes, Percival Graves’ face begins to melt.


	4. Chapter Four

> _I kept thinking how marvelous it would be if I could somehow tear my heart, which felt so heavy, out of my chest._ \- Anton Chekov 

 

Tina has trouble believing her eyes. She has seen quite a bit in her Auror career, but this…

This is something else entirely.

The dark mass rose in front of her on the street, swirling and twisting like a sandstorm, tearing up the ground. 

“Obscurus,” she hears Newt say, wide eyed, holding his suitcase to his chest.

“Credence!” A young girl in a nightgown shouts, blond hair twisting in the wind. Tina doesn't know how she hears her over the roar in her ears, but it's enough to make her look again.

“Modesty?” It was unmistakably the same little girl, Modesty Barebone in the flesh. She had thought her gone, disappeared along with Credence. She had hoped they weren’t dead. How she had hoped that they were alright.

Modesty turns to her, eyes wide with fear.

“Modesty, you don’t remember me but my name is Tina Goldstein,” she says, stooping down to her level, trying her best to ignore the swirling  _thing_ ahead of her. “Is Credence with you?”

She shakes her head frantically.

“I don’t know where he is,” she shouts over the roaring, “I woke up and he was gone, and the wall was gone too!”

“Modesty, listen to me, I’m gonna do something and I need you to stay calm alright?” She was going to get into so much trouble for this but so be it. If I perish, I perish, she reminds herself.

Grabbing onto Modesty’s shoulder and reaching for her wand, she looked at the little girl and tried to muster and encouraging smile at the wide eyed look at her wand. “Deep breaths,” Tina says, and feels the sharp tug of apparation.

Her sitting room is in front of her eyes when she reopens them.

“Oh jeepers,” Queenie says after a second. 

She doesn’t have time to say anything else before Tina Apparates away back to Bedford.

The street materializes in front of her and she distinctly hears the familiars pops of Apparation near her. 

“Goldstein!” She hears Auror Ramirez’s familiar voice and cringes. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was nearby, Ma’am,” it’s not a lie, really, she’s spent the night jumping all over New York in a mad chase for Newt’s overgrown pets.

“Right,” Ramirez raises an eyebrow and Tina notices how uncommonly harried she looks, “well, you should probably stand… What the hell?” 

Tina spins around and admits to herself she’s not particularly surprised to see Newt trying to reason with the distinctively menacing dark cloud.

Except… it’s calming down, or what she supposes calm means for it. The tendrils have stopped twisting quite so aggressively as before and it’s just hovering. 

It hits her like a brick, then, Newt’s whispered ‘Obscurus’, her third year History of Magic classes. Her eyes widen. 

Oh Mercy Lewis, it’s not an it, it’s a person. It’s…

Tina wants to vomit.

She presses forward, runs past the ring of Aurors, ignores Ramirez’s hissed “Goldstein”.

She feels like the cloud is watching her as she approaches, still and silent. She’s no good at this, she’s always been better at dueling, but she owes him.

“Credence?” The whisper escapes her. The cloud pulses angrily for a second before darting away, flying into one of the row houses, its walls blown out, a trail of rubble in its wake.

She ignores the angry calls to fall back into line, steps over the overturned ground. It must have been a pretty building once, she thinks absently, as she steps inside, past the detailed leafy plaster. 

It’s quiet as the grave, its inhabitants fled. Dust covers the floor and hangs in the air around her. Tina covers her nose with the sleeve of her coat. She still in her pajamas and the realization almost births an hysterical laugh.

It’s always unpleasant to be confronted by one’s failures.

She must be strong, Credence deserves at least that.

The steps creak under her when she reaches the top floor. A door is blown off its hinges. She can see the street when she steps inside, the Aurors have put up a magical shield around the building and she’s more upset at that than she can understand.

“Credence?” She calls into the silence. The carpet in the hallway muffles her steps.

Tina takes a breath and lets her wand lead her steps. A lack of bravery has never been a fault anyone has ever thrown at her and they won’t start now.

The bedroom has remained mostly intact, the light of the bubble outside streaming through the window. It looks tender, in fact, clean and orderly, small tokens scattered around.

She takes a step and sees him.

Credence Barebone, in the flesh once more, sitting listlessly in a dark corner of the room, legs spread in front of him.

He looks dead and Tina feels her heart stop before he turns his head to her.

“I remember you,” he says. “You helped me before.”

“I tried,” she offers shakily.

“You helped me,” he repeats, voice strangely firm.

She nods and tears prickle at her eyes.

“I’m Tina,” she introduces herself, not knowing what else to say.

“I know, I remember. I don’t know your last name though, I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Oh, it’s Goldstein.”

He looks at her before letting his head fall back against the wall.

“Is Modesty…” it’s a whisper, but it could just have been torn from him in pincers.

“She’s fine. She’s with my sister,” she adds and a heaviness seems to seep from him, until there’s nothing left but Credence.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She doesn’t know how long she can wait until the Aurors storm in. Her legs fold under her and she kneels down.

“I was worried about you. I never saw you and your sister again, I was afraid something had happened.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you, but we were fine,” he tells her and draws a sharp breath before continuing. “I met someone. He helps me out.”

“Oh,” the way it’s said throws her for a loop and she doesn’t want to presume. Tina feels her cheeks warm and looks away. She can see Credence’s lips quirk from the corner of her eye, before stilling.

“Miss Tina, somebody came here tonight. He wanted to hurt me. And he was wearing his face.”

“What?” She asked, thinking why anyone, a wizard, would want to hurt Credence. There hasn’t been an attack since the Summer. The last sentence caught her attention. “How do you know?”

“His face changed when he was talking to me,”

“What did he look like?” Tina asked, dread filling her. Either the person let the Polyjuice fade or he was transfiguring himself. If the second… 

“He looked strange, he had white hair, and his eyes looked odd. Like they were different colors. I don’t what happened to him, it’s when I…”

Tina feels her heart stop. White hair, mismatched eyes, he killed a dozen of Aurors just a couple of weeks ago. And Credence Barebone threw him out of the window. She can’t help but stare at him for a second.

“Credence, I’m going to need you to come with me. Nobody will hurt you, I promise,” he looks at her before nodding slowly. She stands up, knees aching and holds out a hand. Credence takes it and when he stands, unfolds himself, she can’t help but blink. He’s never seemed so tall before.

They walk outside slowly and he freezes when he sees what’s left of his living room.

“They’ll fix it, don’t worry, it’ll be good as new in no time,” she says, reaching for his arm.

“Witches can do that?” he asks faintly. 

“Yeah, we can,” Tina lets the  _we_  hang in the air around them. The sun is beginning to rise over the rooftops outside, light streaming into the living room. Credence nods.

“Alright,” he says to himself, “alright. We should…”

He doesn’t flinch from the hand on his arm. Just walks slowly ahead towards the door. His hand lingers there and Tina doesn’t ask.

It’s a slow walk down the stairs and Tina remembers the old stories her grandfather liked to tell her when he was alive, a precious memory in the midst of fluttering wings. Gershon’s monster leaving the sea at long last.

They reach the landing in silence.

“I should go first,” she says.

Credence nods.

A burst of cold air hits her once she steps outside and she shivers. Ramirez walks carefully forwards, and the stillness of the Aurors looking at her unnerves her.

“Goldstein, what happened?” The question is terse and Tina opens her mouth before closing it again. Everything seems too real in the timid morning light. She startles when she feels a raindrop fall on her head.

“It’s ok, he’s coming of his own free will,” She answers and Ramirez nods. “Credence, please step outside.”

~

The waiting room is silent. She’s been told to wait as Credence had been marched through. She’s been waiting for an hour and the fight is slowly seeping out of her. She wants to sleep, wants Queenie, wants anything but the clinical quiet of St. Cyprian’s waiting room.

She turns her head to the door and jumps out of her chair.

“Miss Goldstein,” Madam President starts, “if I may have a word?”

“Of course, Ma’am,” she gulps. Inside, her stomach is twisting into knots but she braces her shoulders for what’s to come.

“You did well tonight,” Madam President says.

Tina blinks.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” she croaks.

“Completely reckless and unauthorized…” Tina’s jaw clenches, a bad habit she’s never been able to break and waits for what’s to come. “But you did well.”

A beat. Her mouth opens and closes. The swaying Flemish landscape on the wall looks like it’s mocking her.

“Yes, Ma’am,” She finally says.

Madam President looks at her, hard as steel, the glimpse of softness fading quickly. She holds out her hand, her wand, the shockingly purple handle a dot of color against an arguably discreet ensemble. Tina thinks she could wear a bag and she’d still leave her tongue tied.

“Your arm,” she says and Tina doesn’t stop to think before reaching out. Her wrist is caught in a strong grip and the wand is pointed at their joined hands.

“Do you swear to never speak, write, or otherwise inform anyone of what I am about to tell you,” Madam President asks.

“I swear,” she’s too dazed, too surprised to say anything else. She just wants to go home, sleep for a year. A string of lights ties itself around their hands before she’s quickly released. Madam President reaches into her coat pocket and hands her a slim white piece of paper. Not one, three pages, handwritten in a spidery scrawl. Her eyes run across the pages, finding nothing of note. The _dearest Credence_ is surprising, though.

“What is this?” It seems awfully nondescript, like a letter between far away lovers. The writing seems oddly familiar but she can’t quite place it.

“I went up to Mr. Barebone’s apartment after you left, much to Auror Ramirez’s vocal displeasure,” she sits back calmly, legs crossed. “That letter was on the nightstand.”

The man who helps them out, as Credence had put it. A lover, after all. She looks at the letter again. Looks at the date, the description of London, of all places, the quick stop in Germany. _Darling_ , it says on the page, _dearest_.

You look like your heart’s gonna fall out of your ass, Goldstein, her first partner had used to say, when she was just fresh out of Auror training. 

“Ma’am?” The paper shakes in her hand and she’s horribly aware of how soft the creases are, how often it’s been unfolded and read and folded again.

“Gellert Grindelwald was found wearing Director Graves' clothes,” President Picquery says. Tina needs to sit down. The leather of the chair creaks loudly in the still room.

“Director Graves’ house is being searched as we speak,” President Picquery continues, but Tina’s too shell shocked to do anything more than nod. The letter is gently tugged out of her hand and she can’t bring herself to say anything when it disappears in a quick burst of fire.

The light burns her eyes, the last remnants. It seems wrong, worse than anything done that night. It was Credence’s, it belonged to him.

President Picquery stands, and the quick buttoning of her jacket would have left her breathless on any other time. Not today, though, not now.

“I meant what I said earlier, Goldstein. You did well tonight, I’ll see about transferring you back to Magical Law Enforcement. A trial, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoes and remembers to stand but President Picquery is already stepping out of the waiting room.

She sits back with a deep breath.

She wants to scream.

How could he?

The door opens and she straightens herself. The Healer smiles at her, a clipboard in his hands.

“Miss Goldstein?”  

“Yes? I mean, that’s me,” she says. She doesn’t have the strength to stand.

“Mr. Barebone is sleeping right now,” He says quietly and Tina nods absently. “You should probably get some rest yourself,” he adds, looking at her.

“Right,” it’s 7 in the morning according to her watch, she hasn’t slept in 24 hours. “I can come back later?”

“Yes, of course,” he answers and she takes a deep breath before heading out the hall for the authorized Apparition point.

She needs her sister. She needs peace and quiet and a bed.

Queenie is dozing on the couch when she Apparates in their living room. She jumps, a riot of golden curls and sighs at her before hurrying her over to their room.  A small form is lying on Queenie’s bed and she absently remembers it’s Modesty, Credence’s little sister.

She’ll deal with that later, she thinks as her sister manhandles her into bed and takes off her boots. Her eyes are closing when she feels a blanket being gently tugged over her.

She loves her, she remembers to think, she loves her sister so much. A hand runs through her hair gently and it’s not this Goldstein woman she falls asleep to.

Bubbala, she hears distantly.

~

The sun is high in the sky when she wakes up again. Her head is pounding and her mouth feels thick. She shuffles over to Queenie’s nightstand, grabbing the migraine potion Tina knows she keeps there. Modesty’s gone, she realizes once her head clears.

The doors slide open and she shuffles out. Modesty is sitting on the living room couch, looking at their levitating laundry without much surprise.

“Hi,” Tina says. Modesty turns to her and Tina has the uncomfortable feeling of being sized up.

“Hello,” she finally replies.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she hears her sister’s voice behind her. She is unceremoniously maneuvered to the kitchen table, a cup of coffee falling gently in front of her.

“Thanks,” she says, reaching for the mug, her favorite one, she notes. “I’m gonna go to the Hospital to see Credence before going to MACUSA,” Modesty noticeably perks up but remains silent. “We’ll see what we’re gonna do next when I come back,” Tina says. Queenie sits down in front of her and nods.

~

A different Healer is on call when she arrives. She’s never liked hospitals ever since she was a child, but the secure wing of St. Cyprian’s is almost deceptively pleasant. It looks more like a spa resort than a hospital wing, with wide windows and the green, leafy trees outside rustle gently in the morning breeze.

Room 503 is light and spacious but there’s something unsettling in it. Like the rest of the secure wing, it’s masquerading as something it’s not. Credence is sitting on the bed, long legs crossed under him, dressed in the Hospital’s issue patient robes.

“Hi, Credence,” she says carefully and Credence draws his eyes away from the windows.

“Miss Tina, good morning,” he greets her and gestures to a nearby chair. “Would you like to sit?”

“Yes, thank you,” She sits down and looks around her, trying to avoid his eyes. “Has anybody talked to you yet?”

“Just the nurse and a doctor,” he answers, sounding far away. “This is a magical hospital, right?”

“Yes, St. Cyprian’s,” she answers.

“A saint?” He asks and she can understand the confusion.

“He was a wizard, too, I think,” she adds.

“Didn’t know you could be both,” he says quietly. “My sister?”

“Modesty’s fine, she’s with my sister,” Tina answers. Credence nods, takes a deep breath, and falls silent.

“Credence, the man that…” she can’t say it. “Was his name Percival Graves?”

Silence greets her and she sees him sink down into the pillow. There’s her answer, she thinks.

“Is he dead?” He’s so quiet but it’s loud as a scream in the still room.

“We don’t know, we’re still trying to find him,” she answers.

Credence doesn’t say anything but his hands clench in his lap. She feels awkward, like she’s seeing something she’s not supposed to. The worst kind of voyeur.

She doesn’t know what to do. She’s never thought of her superior’s private lives, for all that Director Graves’ had frequently been the subject of gossip. But this, she had never considered. She’s tempted to scratch his eyes out, but he may be dead, and there’s no point in being angry with a dead man.

In the end, she feels hollow and disjointed.

“Credence, he…” she’s not sure what she’d say, there are so many thoughts warring in her mind.

“It wasn’t like that,” he interrupts her, eyes on his hands, curling into fists.

“What?” 

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it was something shameful and filthy but it wasn’t,” she sees his jaw clenching and he doesn’t look afraid. “I knew what I was doing, Miss Tina,” the words spill over her like sludge.

“He’s a witch too, isn’t he?” He continues. 

“You didn’t know?” She doesn’t bother to correct him on the terminology, it’s not the time or place. No, she’s far more surprised at the revelation.

“No, he never said,” he looks away from her and focuses on the wall. “He was doing something he shouldn’t, wasn’t he?”

She does not think of her sister’s tight smile this morning, when she asked if Mr. Kowalski had been obliviated.

“We’re not allowed to… well, be  _close_ , to non-magical people,” Tina explains. He nods.

“Don’t worry, I’m very discreet,” he says, and there’s something dead behind his words. Something rotten and festering and the entire Auror Corps saw the corpse.

Her hand reaches forward hesitatingly and grasps his.

“I’m sorry,” she says and Credence looks at her. His clammy hand closes around hers.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to [gothyringwald](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald) for looking this over for me :)

> “I went into the desert to forget about you. But the sand was the color of your hair. The desert sky was the color of your eyes. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn’t be you.” ― Jeffrey Eugenides,  _Middlesex_

 

 

Percival Graves is found on the 9th of December, or so he overhears. He had been found in his home, stuffed inside a suitcase, starved and bruised, half dead and half mad.

Something twinges in pain inside of Credence. His face remains emotionless as the Healer, as they are called, continues his questions, pen scratching on a clipboard by itself.

“Are you aware during your transformations?”

There’s a crack in the wall. It seems ridiculous, a world of magic and there’s a crack in the wall of his room, striking across the white plaster like a bolt of lightning.

“What triggers them?”

He’s never been so idle. Even in his dear Bedford apartment, there was always housework to do, meals to cook. Here, he’s mostly alone with his thoughts and it’s a slow torture.

“What does it feel like?”

It feels like God, he thinks. 

The deep and dark thing inside of Credence has grown claws at last. It’s been there for years, he knows, a constant companion, a source of grief and longing.

“It hurts at first, but then I don’t really feel anything afterwards,” he answers instead. There’s no body to feel pain, no skin, no nerves, no bone shattering into dust.

 The Healer leaves and he’s left staring at that crack in the wall until the door slides open and a flurry of blonde hair jumps on him.

“Credence!” Modesty shouts and throws her arms around his shoulders. His hands lock around her waist and he looks up to see a beautiful blonde woman striding calmly to his bed.

“Hi Credence, I’m Queenie, Tina’s sister,” she introduces herself, pulling up the chair.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says and nods at Modesty, “and thank you, for taking care of Modesty.”

“Oh, it was no problem,” she waves him off, a wide smile on her red lips. “She’s a wonderful guest.”

Modesty looks up with a wide smile and he notices the pink ribbons in her hair for the first time. 

“Have they said when you’re getting released?” She asks as he’s running his fingers through Modesty’s hair.

“A few days, unless something happens,” he answers. “Is my house…”

“All fixed up, don’t worry,” she says and he feels himself relax, a weight off his shoulders. He couldn’t go back to Mary Lou, not now, not after everything. 

“Hey, Modesty, could you do me a favor and go down to the cafeteria and bring me something to drink, I’m parched,” Queenie says, holding out a wallet. Modesty’s eyes narrow but she nods and jumps off the bed.

“What’s wrong with Modesty?” He asks once the door closes behind her.

“Nothing,” Queenie says firmly, “it’s just that, me and Tina, we did some tests. Nothing painful,” she adds quickly at his alarmed look. “You see, wizards have ways to stay hidden, like if a no-maj sees a wizarding newspaper he won’t see what’s really written there, he’ll see something else. We tried it with Modesty and she saw the real newspaper.”

“Then she’s a witch?” he asks, and Queenie holds up a hand for silence, eyes soft.

“And then we tried something else. We handed her our wands and neither reacted,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

“There’s something called a Squib, they have some magic, enough to see our world, but not enough to really use it,” she finishes. 

“I see,” Credence says and he does. All that he’s managed to grasp in the last week tells him that the wizarding world values power. And Modesty has none. He takes a deep breath, praying for calm.

“There’s still time before she turns eleven but, well it ain’t that likely,” Queenie adds. “But we had to try this because we needed to know… Sugar, Modesty being a Squib means they can’t take her away from you. It’s why I was able to bring her here today.”

~

Modesty and Queenie stay for a couple more hours. The sun is setting when they leave and his dinner arrives shortly afterwards. And through it all, Credence feels numb. There are a million rules in this world, of scales and hierarchies and he doesn’t really understand how it all works. He has enough trouble with the normal one. Now he has something else he needs to figure out.

He will, though. He hasn’t given up so far and he won’t start now.

He takes a deep breath and feels himself part into fragments. The pain is momentary, he knows, and he sinks into the floor.

It’s distracting, how everything is just so much  _more_  like this. It doesn’t take him long to find him.

Percival is a beacon in the fog.

It’s much easier to pull himself together.

Percival’s room mirrors Credence’s own. He looks at the window, trying to position himself in the building, trying his best to avoid the sleeping form on the bed. That dear, familiar shape, he thinks.

His breath escapes him when he looks at him. His hospital issued slippers are silent when he moves forward but he can’t help but feel the world change and shift around him. It’s too much, all of it, he doesn’t know how much more he can be thrown without stumbling.

And Percival is in no state to help hold him up. The chair creaks as he sits down by his bedside and he reaches for the bowl of water and cloth on the nightstand. He has to do something. Doing something has always helped him stay calm.

Sweat beads on Percival’s forehead and the moist cloth traces what part of him isn’t bandaged. His fingers follow the path lightly and Credence frowns. Percival feels far too warm under his hand.

A shuddering breath escapes the figure on the bed and Credence stills.

How many times has he seen those eyes flutter open. Slowly, softly, in his warm bed.

Not like this, he thinks as he lets the moist cloth continue its path over Percival’s skin.

“Hello,” Percival whispers. He sounds so faint, like he could be carried away in a wind. Credence won’t let him.

“Aren’t you lovely,” Percival continues, seemingly unperturbed by his silence. 

He’s afraid he’ll cry if he opens his mouth and that’s the last thing either of them need at the moment.

There’s a bandage over half of his face, and it looks blue in the moonlight streaming through the windows. It stretches when Percival grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“What for?” Credence turns away, dropping the cloth in the bowl. His voice hardly even breaks. He is irrationally proud of that.

“You know why, we’ve been through this every night,” he answers and Credence feels his blood freeze.

He gulps, reaching up to Percival’s forehead, letting his fingers run through the strands of hair, a thumb swiping at the short bristles at the side. He avoids the ugly, purple bruise at his temple.

“We could go out to dinner one night, would you like that?” Percival asks him and Credence can feel tears prickle at the back of his eyes. “I should have done that from the start, but I swear I couldn’t.”

“It’s ok,” he chokes out. He should probably avoid upsetting him, indulge Percival’s delusions even if it tears him apart.

Percival frowns and shakes his head. Credence decides he’ll regret this later. He leans over Percival and covers his lips with his.

He’s kissed him so many times now, hesitatingly, happily, sensually, in passing, a kiss on his cheek before Percival hurried out of the door. Never like this, heart broken and bloody on the floor, lips chapped and skin cracking.

“I’m sorry,” Percival repeats against his lips, a sliver of air between them. “I won’t be able to tell you this but I loved you.”

Credence closes his eyes and grasps at the sheets under his hands. There’s a weight in his chest, a tangle of blood and bone that won’t let him breathe, won’t let him speak.

“Please say you love me,” he hears Percival continue, “that it wasn’t just…”

“It wasn’t,” Credence shakes his head, voice shattering like glass. 

“You’re very sweet,” Percival mumbles, eyes drooping.

“You should sleep,” Credence says.

“I  _am_ asleep,” he replies and Credence leans forward to lay a kiss on the unbandaged cheek. They had no right, no right at all, to leave them both in such a state. He waits until Percival falls asleep, breathing labored and loud in the silent room.

He should hate him.

But he never asked, either, not really, not more than inquiries for politeness’ sake. An unspoken agreement hung between the two on that matter. Credence didn’t ask and Percival didn’t lie.

And in the end they both got what they wanted.

Company for comfort, a sad mockery of love for money.

He digs his fingers in the seat. He has always wanted to be loved but it had never been a fundamental necessity. Maybe it’s a flaw in him, that he can settle for less but it’s the truth. Every step is a step up, he reminds himself.

Percival was not the first man to speak to him, to offer him a warm drink. Credence knows there’s something about him that calls to the crows to pick apart his carcass.

But none had ever offered anything of value, not until Percival. Credence knew from the moment he saw him, knew he wanted him. And as they talked, he knew that he could get more out of him than a cup of coffee at the corner automat.

So, he tells himself, that’s that. And in his heart of hearts, Credence Barebone knows he is a liar.

~

His bag is already packed, placed on the chair next to his bed. He hasn’t dared to go into Percival’s room again. Officially, they have never met, or so Tina had said, squirming in that very chair. 

Percival Graves never took a pamphlet from him, never bought him a sandwich. Never sat down next to him on a park bench.

Never gave him a home.

It’s not right, he thinks, it’s not right to leave him in the dust like this. 

Being caught with him could mean a world of trouble for Percival, and there’s few things he wants less.

Night has fallen while he sat on the bed, counting down the hours to his release, a list of appointments he must keep, checks he has to submit to in MACUSA. 

He has a corner room, he thinks as he approaches the window, if he twists he can almost see Percival’s room.

The window creaks when he opens it. He leans his upper body outside, feeling the cold December air in his bones. 

It’s a foolish idea, he may not even hear him.

It’s the only one he has.

“I wish I was in Carrickfergus,” he begins, voice wavering. He’s never been a good singer, even before his voice broke. He clears his throat.

“Only for nights in Ballygrand,” he continues into the still night, “I would swim over the deepest ocean for my love to find.“  

~

Tina is there when he’s released, standing by the receptionist’s desk. Bundled into her bright blue coat, she’s a spot of color in the otherwise bland surroundings. She gives him a shaky smile and takes hold of his shoulder. The feeling of being stretched and compressed sweeps over him.

“Alright there?” She asks when they reappear in his living room. As promised, it’s as if nothing has happened. The wall is standing again, Modesty’s books are on the table.

“Modesty?” He asks, looking around, taking stock of his house.

“We’re bringing her over tomorrow. I just thought you’d probably appreciate some time alone right now.” Tina says and he does, he really does. He already feels strange being back again, and he doesn’t want to think of what he’d do if he had to be strong for Modesty.

He doesn’t feel particularly strong.

He feels tired and confused. He wants to go to sleep and never wake up.

“My sister told you about Modesty?” Tina’s voice crashes his thoughts and he shakes himself. There’s no point.

“Yeah, she did,” He answers. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Oh, no, thank you, I should be getting back, I’m on my lunch break,” she says, pointing at the door.

“Thank you, for everything.” Credence says and Tina stops. “Can you… can you do magic so that nobody can come inside like he did?” She looks at him and nods.

He doesn’t quite catch the words she mutters under her breath, wand pointed at the door. A golden light leaves the tip and covers the door, pulsing and sinking inside the wood. It fades after a second and Tina looks back at his wide eyed stare. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be used to it.

“Bye.” She says, and walks out the door.

He stares at the wall for a second before walking into the kitchen. They let the food rot, he realizes as soon as he steps inside and opens his cabinets.

The lettuce falls apart in his hands, limp and dark, and he just shoves it all inside the bin, along with the moldy bread and rancid meat. In the end he’s left with the cream toffee he had bought for Modesty, a tin of saltines and a bag of leftover salted nuts from Thanksgiving.

He leaves his sad fare on the table as he opens his windows and ducks in the bottom cabinet under the sink for the tin of Borax, scrubs his shelves, rubs his hands raw. It’s the ammonia, he tells himself, when tears prickle his eyes, it’s all it is. He just has to get the smell out.

It’s not all it is, he thinks when he comes across a bottle of wine he had bought for Percival one day, all euphemisms and shifty eyes at the grocery store owner, Bedford’s worst kept secret.

He had wanted to do something nice for Percival. Stupid, he tells himself, an idiot is what he is.

It doesn’t matter that Percival’s lips had twitched in a badly concealed grin, his whispered “my Credence, living a life of crime”.

His kisses had tasted of wine, warm and heady, not the smooth fruitiness of the expensive bottle he had shared with him, and it had gone straight to his head. Had made him feel fuzzy and decadent as Percival’s lips trailed over his legs.

Ugly, he had admitted, a beanstalk. Beautiful and long, he was corrected.

He can’t hate him, not for a minute, and he hates himself more for the weakness of it.

He tears the cork out with a violence he doesn’t feel, and takes a swig, grimacing.

The angry part of him wants storms and earthquakes and fires, a great, big wave to wash the city away. New York is all demons to him, a great, hulking Gaderene. He has had them already, he thinks, and a hysterical, teary laugh escapes him, all his demons rushing to drown themselves in the river.

Credence will take weakness for a bit, just a small fraction of time. He wants to be small and scared, he wants to hide his face in the brown curls of the Pike Street working girl. Wants the teenage dreams of getting on a train headed to California, where there’s no shadow of Mary Lou hovering over him. He wants his mother, the real one, the one he doesn’t even remember.

“It’s my house.” He tells the still apartment. December chill has crawled inside his open windows. “It’s mine, I paid for it on my back.” He chokes out a sob into the bottle neck, and presses his face against the glass.

Just a little while. He’ll be himself in the morning. He’ll decide what to do then.

~

He will not lie to himself. His sheets do not smell of Percival when he wakes up the next morning. The third kitchen chair sits untouched simply because there is no use for it. There is no body next to him in bed. 

There is no proof that Percival Graves was ever there, no tangible evidence. There was a letter, and he tears his bedroom apart trying to find it.

He can’t help but ask Tina when she knocks on the door the following day, Modesty in tow.

“It was destroyed.” Tina says, looking uncomfortable.

Grief floods him. That letter was the only sentimentality he allowed himself. He had loved it. People should be allowed to keep the things they love.

“Are you alright?” She asks him.

“No,” he takes a deep breath. “But I will be.”

Tina doesn’t say anything as he pours the coffee in her cup, one of the first things he bought for the house. White porcelain with a thin blue stripe. It had reminded him of Percival, tasteful and understated and he’s everywhere in the house, every brick, every beam, had burrowed himself inside the rafters of his soul and Credence had never realized.

He raises his own cup to his lips and blows, watching little ripples across the dark surface.

“Percival gave me money,” he says, and Tina’s eyes widen. “I don’t have an education. It’s not a good thing for an American looking for work.”

“I see,” and she looks like she doesn’t want to. It’s not a threat, he tells himself, it’s a warning, a small reminder. “I’ll talk to the President.”

“Thank you,” he says, an ear out for Modesty in her room. There are things she doesn’t need to know.

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to [intravenusann](archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann) for giving me the idea to begin with and for her constant support, and [gothyringwald](archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald) for looking this over for me. And to everybody who's commented and left kudos, you were all wonderful and I hope you enjoy the end.

> _Man wanted a home, a place for warmth, or comfort, first of physical warmth, then the warmth of the affections._ ― Henry David Thoreau

 

January, 1927

Credence takes a deep breath before raising his clenched fist and knocking on the door.

It’s quite a pleasant neighborhood, one of the nicest ones in Manhattan where he usually didn’t dare to linger.

It’s different now, he thinks, he’s been invited.

The door opens suddenly and Percival’s eyes meet his. He looks different. The bandages from the hospital have been peeled away, a mass of red, new flesh, undeniably burned. He’s not bothered, he’s seen more than one veteran with half a face.

“Credence,” Percival says and it’s almost a whisper.

A strong part of him wants to turn away, to leave, to return to the hard earned peace he has scrounged for himself this past month.

“Hello,” he says, and bites his lip. It feels so hard to look at him, all their skeletons brought out of the closet to be gawked at.

“Sorry, come in,” Percival visibly shakes himself and opens the door.

“I got your note,” he says as Percival shuts the door behind him and curses himself immediately afterwards. Of course he got the note. Of course he came. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up.

He wanted to be stone, but he’s never been able to, not with Percival.

“Good,” Percival says, coming to stand in front of him. He’s limping slightly. His sleeves are rolled up and he sees new scars, the skin red and raised. “I was half afraid Tina would burn it, to be honest.”

“I think she almost did,” Tina had made no secret of what she thought of the whole thing.

“Well, I’m glad she didn’t,” he continues, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, do you want anything to drink?” Percival asks as he leads him into a side room. A sitting room, he realizes, obviously ransacked, a wooden crate in a corner.

“No, thank you.”

“I’m going through some things,” Percival says and Credence nods. “Please, sit.”

The couch is a deep blue, obviously aged but not worn. It’s for show, he think, all he’s seen of the house seems very little like a home, more tended than cared for. A momentary resting place.

Percival remains standing, leaning his weight against the fireplace mantel.

The silence that falls pains Credence. He picks at his fingernails mechanically.

“How have you been?” He asks at last.

“Good. I got out about a week ago. And you?”

“I’ve been well,” he answers quickly. “I’m taking classes, after work. For my… magic,” it still feels odd to say it, to truly acknowledge it, even if it is a warped, dangerous thing.

“You got a job?” Percival asks and smiles at him. The sight is so familiar he has to look down at his lap. He can’t bear to look at him, not yet, not like this.

“Yes, it’s mostly just inventory, but it’s alright,” he answers.

“I’m glad,” Percival says and Credence _must_. He raises his head to see him drag a hand down his face, eyes clenched shut.

For the first time, Credence almost hates him, wants to make him feel as empty as he himself feels, confronted with the leftovers of whatever it was that they had.

“I had to ask Tina for your address,” he says, remembering her clenched jaw and sharp nod when he asked. He wishes he could take back the words as soon as they’re spoken, but he knows he can’t turn back time on his mistakes, not even with magic. “It’s so strange that I didn’t even know where you lived. Nothing, really,”

Credence looks up to see Percival’s face hidden, buried in his hand. His fingers tug at his hair. The sight pulls at his heartstrings but he braces himself. He’s hurt too, feels it in his mouth like bile.

“This whole time and I…” he continues, words coming freely.

“You knew everything,” Percival cuts him off. “Everything that mattered,” he stops himself and takes a breath. Credence wants to say something but he won’t, not yet. “I liked being with you. I liked the man I was when I was with you.”

“I liked you, especially,” he continues, his right hand reaching up to pinch at the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “You’re a beautiful person, Credence, and you deserve better than how I treated you.”

“I don’t hate you, Percival,” Credence says. He wishes he could, he truly does. “I’m hurt, and angry but I don’t hate you. I don’t think I even could.”

“Credence…”

“Please. I’m trying to be honest.” Sincerity had never come easily to him, all half truths and hidden meanings. He had always been a creature of silences. He’s had enough of it all, small talk with Percival like they’re just distant acquaintances.

“It wasn’t right, but I know that you never intended to hurt me,” he continues.

“That’s not enough, Credence, that’s not nearly enough,” Percival shakes his head and Credence sees how pained he is.

“I know.” he says. It had been a slow walk to the top of that hill, to rise to that truth. He couldn’t have taken it without Percival, would still be throwing himself against the rocks.

“I’m not asking anything from you,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to…” Percival begins before grimacing. He’s never seen him so heavy, so weighed down. If it were any other time, he’d shrug it off and change the subject and for the first time Credence truly sees the half of him he’s kept carefully hidden in his presence. He wants to help him carry that weight but the words catch in his throat. It’s not his place, may never be again.

He’ll live, he knows.  The world will not end if he doesn’t touch Percival again. He’ll have his sister, his job, his classes every other day with a retired Ilvermorny Charms professor, his burgeoning friendships with Tina and Queenie. He may even find someone else.

His life didn’t begin with Percival Graves and it won’t end without him either.

“I know,” he says and falls silent.

There’s a painting on the wall, a small thing, not much bigger than two palms. Salome holding a platter, the head of John the Baptist in grisly, bloody detail.

He wonders how long that has been there, Percival is a self-admitted ignorant of the Good Book.

“You said you loved me,” Credence says and Percival’s eyes widen. Good, he thinks vindictively, finally something other than guilt.

“What?” Percival asks flatly.

“In the hospital, I went to your room. You said you loved me,” he will not be cowed, not now. He has nothing to be ashamed of.

He doesn’t deny it.

“I love you.”

Percival looks like a man at a crossroads, scared and disbelieving. A shuddering breath is all the response he has for a minute.

“Credence, you don’t have to…” He sounds so pained, so understanding, and Credence is furious.

“I know my own feelings. When I say that I love you, I mean it,” he will not be patronized in this, not now, not by him of all people. 

“You can do better than me,” it’s a shamed confession, truth at last, he thinks. Not his truth but that’s not important.

“That’s not what this is about,” he holds out his hands, palms up, scarred and ugly, sees the tempest behind Percival’s eyes. “Don’t you want me anymore?”

He’s being cruel, he knows. Percival has always wanted him so much, from the very start. 

“Of course I want you,” Percival looks at him, lost, a long sigh. 

“Come here,” Credence can see his resolve shattering. “I’ve missed you.”

Percival wraps his arms around him and breathes into his neck, a long kiss lain there like an offering. His pride. Two copper coins, he thinks. A fortune. His arms lace around Percival’s neck.

“Credence, I…”

“I love you,” he repeats.

The arms around his waist tighten their grip. “Credence…” Percival sounds ruined. He wants to put him to right, build him up again, brick by brick. He doesn’t need him, but he does want him still and maybe that’s the difference.

It feels like coming home and he never wants to leave again. He’d never had a shelter before Percival, nobody to help him, despite what Mary Lou said of her own goodness. He’d always had to keep an eye on Chastity, on Modesty, even baby Prudence, baptized in a hurry before the fever that rampaged through their dead end of New York took her too.

He feels Percival trembling and draws back.

“I’m sorry, it’s my leg,” he says, visibly embarrassed.

“It’s alright,” he says and pulls him down by his side. The moment, an interlude of sincerity, has been broken and Percival sits stiffly next to him, hand clutching his knee. Credence wants to smooth the frown from his face.

Percival huffs a breath and runs a hand through his hair. He does that when he’s uncomfortable or nervous.

“Why?” he asks, the question that has been gnawing at him for a month.

Percival looks curiously at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Why this whole thing? Tina told me you were committing a crime, so why?” It couldn’t have been love, not then, when all he knew of him was Credence Barebone of Second Salemers, and who could love that?

Lust, maybe, but love and lust are two very different beasts as well he knows.

Percival looks pained for a moment but nods.

“I suppose, it started when I saw you for the first time,” he begins and Credence can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Percival huffs a laugh at his doubtful look and the tension is broken.

“Not like that, I won’t say it was love at first sight, I’m too old for that. You were, are, beautiful, I can’t be blamed for looking,” Percival says. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “But the more we spoke, the more I wanted you, everything from you. I thought about your hands, your eyes, I wondered what delights hid in your dark hair.”

Credence forgives him his whimsical tirade, has the feeling he’s being privy to more of Percival Graves than he’s ever shown before, the dark, shadowy corners of his soul. Percival’s hand spasms where it rests on his thigh and Credence reaches for it, holds it in his. Percival’s Adam’s apple bobs before he opens his eyes and turns his face to his.

“I thought,” he begins before shaking his head. “Eventually, I stopped thinking of how I wanted you, and I started thinking of what I could do to please you. Forgive my vanity, but I believed my interest wasn’t entirely one sided,” Credence shakes his head.

“I thought, we could both have what we wanted,” he finishes, thumb stroking over the skin of Credence’s hand. It’s such a usual move, so dear in his familiarity. 

He leans his head forward softly and presses their foreheads together.

“I’m so sorry, you should never have gotten hurt,” Percival says.

He doesn’t say it’s alright, because it’s not. He kisses him instead, and Percival drinks him like a man dying of thirst, at the end of a long desert.

He draws a breath as their lips part, foreheads still pressed together. Percival’s eyes are closed as he licks his lips. Credence kisses him again and again, brief and fleeting kisses.

His hand reaches up despite himself, grasps at the back of Percival’s head. He feels Percival’s fingers gripping at his waistcoat, tugging him closer.

It always comes back to this with the two of them, he thinks. He allows himself one last kiss, tugs at Percival’s lower lip, relishes in the groan that follows.

“Wait,” he says and Percival releases him, scooting back on the couch.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t,” he begins before Credence cuts him off.

“No, stop that,” Credence says, reaches for his hands, laces their fingers together. “Just, let’s be here, for a bit,” he doesn’t say what will happen after that time is done, knows he can’t stay, not like this, and he knows Percival knows it too.

Percival nods and cups his face in his hand and kisses the patch of skin bellow his eye.

“Alright, we’ll just stay here,” he agrees.

Silence falls over the room, broken by their breaths and kisses, when one of them can’t help himself. Stolen kisses, he thinks ruefully, one misdeed after another.

“How are your classes going?” Percival asks and Credence raises his head.

“Well, I think. We started doing Charms this week. It’s going,” he doesn’t elaborate and Percival huffs a laugh.

“I was terrible at Charms, at first. Too much bluster, not enough finesse,” he recites, putting on a too deep voice and Credence can’t help the smile that crosses his face. Percival brightens at the sight of it and if anything has made him want to cry today, that’s it.

He blinks quickly, prays Percival hasn’t noticed.

“I like History of Magic,” he offers and Percival looks so fondly at him.

“I figured you might, you have a good head for that,” he says.

“For what, dates?” He furrows his brows.

“No, for… well, stories, I suppose,” Credence hums in response and kisses his cheek. “That’s what they are, in the end,” Percival finishes.

Credence wonders if he’ll be a story, the monster of New York, like Salome and her platter, ready to damn a man.

He doesn’t want to damn this man, but he fears Percival has done it himself.

“And you?” he asks.

Percival chuckles mirthlessly and presses his lips to his forehead.

“Technically, I’m on leave,” he begins, bitter emphasis on the first word. “In reality, I’m not welcome at MACUSA anymore. Not with Seraphina, at least,” he sighs.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says.

“I’ve given the better part of my life to MACUSA,” he continues, and Credence can hear the grief in his voice under the careful veneer of neutrality. “And in the end, it made a liar of me.”

And a whore out of me, he thinks. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Percival. There’s a grandfather clock in the corner and he hears the mechanical tick, catches a glimpse of the polished brass of the pendulum as it swings back and forth.

“I’ll have to go soon,” he says and he feels like years of silence have passed between them.

“I know,” Percival answers quietly.

Percival keeps hold of his hand when he stands up from the couch. He always grasps at his hand when he gets up and Credence can’t bear to look back at him, he never has.

He feels him get up behind him, feels the hesitancy in him.

He walks him slowly to the door, hand trapped in Percival’s. He only releases him when he turns around to grab his coat. He holds it out for him to shrug into and a breath catches in his throat.

“Give Modesty my love,” Percival says, voice thick.

“I will,” Credence says.

“Well…” Percival begins but it falls to the thick air between them. What can they say, he wonders, that they haven’t already said? They’re not casual acquaintances saying goodbye, Percival loves him and he loves him back.

“Percival, I did my part. I won’t come back here, not like this,” Credence says and he has to bite his lip, has to focus on something else but the prickling in his eyes. “Even if we never see each other again, I’ll always feel the greatest tenderness for you,” he’s trying so hard to be still and calm but he’s not made of stone. His breath catches and wavers. He has to do this.

“Never, huh?” Percival gives a small, pained laugh and Credence almost breaks, almost falls into his arms to never leave again. It’s a long way to almost.

“I won’t beg,” he says, heavy in the silent hallway.

“No,” Percival agrees, and looks so very proud of him. “No, you won’t.”

Credence cups his face in his hands, and brings Percival’s mouth up to his. It’s just a press of lips, slow and soft and he knows he has to let go.

Something breaks in him when he opens the door. He can hear the sounds from the street intruding on their quiet interlude and he resents the world all the more for it. He squares his shoulders and steps outside.

“Dinner’s at the usual time, if you want to come,” he turns around to add, Percival holding the door in a tight grip, knuckles white in sharp contrast to the deep brown of the wood.

He nods tightly, jaw tight and he’s everything Credence has ever wanted. He takes a step forward and doesn’t look back. He’s had enough of looking back.

 

~

 

“Is Miss Tina coming?” Modesty asks excitedly, noticing the table set for three. Tina, with her trousers, and her Auror’s badge, the sole focus of Modesty’s admiration. He hasn’t said anything yet, and he thinks she knows she can never be like Tina. The fondness is reciprocated, for all Tina’s initial awkwardness with Modesty, her little shadow had endeared herself to both Goldstein sisters.

It’s a natural charisma he’ll never master for however long he lives.

“I don’t think so,” he answers. Modesty frowns and they both freeze at the knock on the door. Modesty reacts first and runs down the hall. He hears the lock and the door opens as he walks slowly.

“Oh, it’s you,” he hears Modesty say.

“Hello Modesty,” Percival’s voice sounds. He straightens when he sees him turning the corner.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m early,” Percival says. “But I thought you could use a hand. I know you’ve been busy.”

“I don’t have work today. Or classes,” he answers and Percival visibly deflates.

“Oh.”

“But I could use somebody to peel the potatoes,” he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing at Percival’s wide eyed look.

“Sounds fantastic,” Percival answers, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full reference list [here](http://braganzas.tumblr.com/post/165563175711/parallels-and-references-in-till-the-siren)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I live and breathe feedback.
> 
> I'm also on tumbr @braganzas :)


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